You could write one thousand symphonies to the tune of “I don’t understand,” but no combination of chords will ever unlock the lockbox you were never meant to open. No, better to sing steadily into the night, letting your voice tangle with the heavenly harmony and float away with flaming tongues.
You could blaze a trail through the wood, but no manmade path will lead to a lookout with the view you want to see. Better to keep running forward along the path ahead, through caverns and crags, following the light that sometimes waxes and sometimes wanes but always beckons.
I’ve been thinking about how this journey is like a sweater that slowly comes unraveled once you pull on a loose thread. Tug at the glory and watch as the fleeting things come undone. The dust settles and raw, resplendent strands remain. Pick one up in your calloused hands and follow it on and on and on until day breaks and the sky turns indigo and you forget what the question was in the first place.
Even when it’s raining and Tuesday, the gentle voice calls. Sometimes it’s the woman next to you who whispers softly into your ear, sometimes it’s the thrum inside your ribcage. But always its Him, the lover of souls, the unraveler of sweaters, the conductor of orchestras, the carver of paths.